Hello! Just an FYI, I felt the urge to write a chapter for this story but this came out pretty quickly, in about half an hour, so I am not sure how good it will be. I am hoping as always that it will be at least mildly entertaining. :) Reviews would be awesome of course! Thanks for reading and double thanks to those who are so kind to send reviews my way, I appreciate it super amounts! ENJOY!
Dean's foot is placed firmly on the accelerator; it presses further and further to the floor as he escapes the parking lot and the fact that he actually just punched his brother in the face. He sees some of the folks he spotted earlier; the kids; the couple; and he suddenly finds that he hates them all. His breath comes out in short bursts and by the way his blood is pumping and his heart is beating, he half expects it to come charging through his chest just like in that damn movie.
He twists and wraps and beats his hands on the steering wheel in an effort to transfer some of the spiral of emotions that run rampant through him outward and into his baby instead. He is beyond pissed off. And he feels guilty. And he is so damn… thirsty. He was in such a rush to get away; to clear his head; to stop the interrogation and potential for a major chick flick moment that he didn't even bring his damn cup of coffee. But now, even if he did, he knows that ain't gonna cut it. Not anymore.
Damn it. It just isn't fair. He has one thing, one little insignificant thing that he uses to help him and his stupid brother has to blow it way out of proportion. Typical Sammy behaviour; looks for a problem where there is none; has to psychoanalyze it to fricken death. What does Sam expect him to talk about anyway? Sam thinks he wants to know but Dean knows better. He hasn't seen Hell, he doesn't know. He didn't watch while his own skin, his own flesh, was filleted strip by agonizing strip, just to be dropped to the ground like the gristle off a damn steak. He didn't torture people and enjoy doing the same thing to them. So no, Sam does not understand. And Dean is not about to fill him in on what kind of monster his brother truly became.
Dean begins to feel better, well, not about the things he has done but about the justification he has for the solace he can find with a good stiff drink. He doesn't have a problem, although he is starting to get irritated by the nagging voice in the back of his head. The one that feels the incessant need to tell him if that was indeed the case he wouldn't have stormed off. But it's not that. It's Sam. He was on the verge of delving into his ultra girly mode, which would include the want and need to talk about feelings. And the last thing Dean wants to do, ever again, is feel. Plus, Sam deserves to stew in his own juices for a few hours. He broke his trust the second he decided to root through his big brother's stuff. And he isn't capable of believing what Dean has been telling him; that he is dealing with it. So screw it. And screw Sam. Dean is fine. He is… fine.
Shit. There is that voice in his head again. Maybe Sam is right. Dean tells himself to shut the hell up and screeches the tires around a bend in the road. He looks through the rear view mirror and admires the plume of dust that his slight off road driving creates in its wake. Ah, there is nothing like barrelling down a country road to get the thoughts in his head under control.
A few minutes later and a deep sigh escapes him. Shit. He wants a drink, or something, just to take the edge off. To get his focus back on anything else but the desire to have a drink in the first place. The thought rolls around and around in his head and before he realizes it he is stopped at the side of the road, his hand searching with purpose through the glove compartment. And then the console. And then the back seat. The front seat. Under the seat. Through the glove compartment again.
Now he is outside with his body halfway into the damn trunk. He slams the trunk door in frustration and anger and leans heavily against it. His baby doesn't even have what he needs. Frick. What he needs is still back in the room, in the grasp of his privacy breaking, 'it's for your own good' bullshit spewing brother. He slides down to the ground and leans against the side of the Impala. His blood pumps loudly in his ears. His nerves are wound so tight he feels the strain in every muscle of his body, like he is ready to blow into a million pieces. He forces himself to shut his eyes and take a few deep breaths. He tells himself it's okay. That he is okay. Everything is okay. He doesn't need it, not really. He can get by just fine.
Then again, maybe not. He fidgets and wrings his hands. He notices his left leg start to bounce on the spot. It's just nerves and anger and betrayal he feels, nothing more than that. As he lifts a hand to wipe off a suddenly present and driving him to the brink of madness bead of sweat as it tracks down his face, even he has a hard time trying to explain or ignore the tremor that is coursing through it. His hand is shaking and he can't control it. His hand is fricken shaking! Damn Sammy, this is all his fault. His brother can rile him up more than any monster or demon ever could, and it rattles him until he feels like…well, like this. This is Sam's fault, not his.
Back in the car, Dean looks across to the passenger seat and notices the strewn about contents of the glove box. Okay, maybe he can't blame his brother for that. Crap. Dean knows it is a bad sign when he can't remember in any great detail the search he conducted on his own car. Maybe he should go back. Maybe he should listen to Sam for once. Maybe. He closes his eyes again and just the thought of talking about it, about his time in Hell, unleashes a myriad of horrific scenes behind his eyelids. No damn it. He can't. At least not yet. It's too fresh and too painful and too much to subject his brother to. He won't do it. The picture in his head of Sam, of how he imagines he would react to hearing about it, is what drives Dean to start up the car once again and rumble down the pavement towards Paradise.
He reaches the town and instantly spots a large crowd gathered down the road. Curiosity compels him to meander his way through the street, through the throngs of people crossing the road, and scope out the scene as he slowly drives by. He passes by at a snail's pace until he catches a glimpse of what has everyone's attention. There it is, like some kind of beacon. The Paradise Pub, in all its glory.
Weird. As his focus drifts to the surrounding street he doesn't see a soul. Not one person anywhere else. The only activity in this whole damn town seems to be located outside the doors of the pub. People stand there and wait. There is a long line and it keeps getting longer as he watches. His hunter instincts scream at him to keep driving; to go back to the motel; to forget what happened earlier and get Sam to help scope this out with him; that this is most definitely some kind of hunt. But he doesn't do any of those things. He pulls his car to the curb. He shuts off the car. He gets out. He starts to walk over. Double weird. He can feel his mouth start to water; the promise of getting his craving satisfied tumbles around through his senses and spurs his movements on.
As he passes by the bar he looks through large windows that seem to take up most of the outside wall. There must be ten employees gazing out towards the crowd. They seem to scan each person as they arrive. He tracks his eyes along the perimeter of the window, to the crowd, and back again. And then he flinches. Because now, every pair of eyes of every employee on the other side of that damn window are focused on one thing. Him.
TBC... Reviews are golden dontcha know! ;) Thanks for stopping by!